


Reward

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Begging, Blindfolds, Edging, F/M, Femdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, now we know why her War Boys are so loyal?</p><p>Failed <a href="http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=332994#cmt332994">  kink meme prompt </a>, pretty much just posted to get myself the YOU TRIED <a href="http://tfwiki.net/wiki/Rodimus_Star"> Rodimus Star </a>.  Can't win 'em all, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reward

The fabric tightened over his eyes before she spoke. "I'll let you come in my mouth if you beg me."  Morsov hated not seeing, and she knew that.  And that was why she’d tied the cloth over his eyes in the first place.

That and...he could smell her on it, like salt and chrome, like a hint of things to come.  

He’d shone in battle today, and the Imperator had seen it, had witnessed it, and as they’d rolled back onto the platform, she’d come to his vehicle, the Imperator, speaking directly to him, and told him to come up to her quarters.

Everyone knew what that meant, and even if he hadn’t, the sultry purr in her voice had shot straight to his groin, sending little eddies of anticipation. “I don’t beg,” Morsov said, stubbornly.

“You will.” 

If he hadn't been hard before--so that walking up here already was kind of a problem, his cock's head straining against his trousers--he was steel hard now, hard enough to hurt, almost, but the good kind of pain, like sore muscles the next day or something. Morsov gulped, nodding, even though he hated the blindfold.  Because...that?  Yeah.  Morsov didn't beg, but even so those words lit like fire through him, half responding to challenge, half just...responding. 

Morsov felt her walk around him, trailing fingers over his shoulders, running a long line down the well of his spine, and then back up: the kind of light shivery touch that makes you aware of every inch of skin, and the blood rushing under it.  

Her fingers danced over his shoulder, teasing the line of his jaw, and he felt her get nearer, and then soft lips against his, and a tongue darting between his lips, just a little, like an outrider, pulling back as he leaned forward, desperate for contact.  He felt her mouth tighten, a teasing smile, as she pulled away, just from the kiss, though. Her hand continued to wander, tracing the geometric scars on his chest, as if reinscribing them into his skin, and each little contact, like a feather or breeze, sent more and more of some strange, liquescent desire to pool in his belly.  

“I don’t hear you begging,” she murmured, and he could feel her fingertip like a line of fire over his body, lazily wending its way down.

He growled, hands groping blindly for her, catching in the strap that held her left hand on. “Make me.”  

She gave a soft laugh, dangerous, like a razor drawn lightly over skin, and leaned closer, whispering, “I will.”  

He wished he could still the shudder that ran through him and he would have hauled her in for a kiss, the fierce kind that predators made, but she slipped down, out of his grip, and he felt her tongue against him, tasting his belly as her hands undid his trousers. He felt the cool touch of metal, pulling his cock free, and he felt the worn-smooth coolness slide up, gently, the shaft, and touch that little bead of heat welling from the head of his cock. Morsov’s hands balled into fists, then released, helpless without sight, helpless to do anything but stand, aroused and erect, and let her look, touch, examine.  

But he didn’t beg. He wouldn’t.  He wanted her--but his way, driving inside her body, his cock buried in that secret place women had.  He wanted that--the thought had drilled into his mind with her invitation, and he’d watched her walk away, the way her hips moved, just different from the War Boys’ and it had set fire to his blood, enflamed his imagination.  He would know. He wanted to know.

And then he felt a circle of wetness over the head of his cock, and the line of a tongue tracing the underside of his head, and he couldn’t help but groan.

But that wasn’t the same as begging, he thought, biting down on the sound.  Let her try, if she wanted. He wouldn’t beg. Would not.  E-even when she moved like that, in long, slow pulses, taking more and more of him in with each one, her hands stroking lightly over his thighs, his belly, and her mouth was a warm, wet snugness over his cock, moving in just the right rhythm that he felt that pool of desire in him start to stir, to ripple, the way water does when there’s a loud sound nearby, and it hit him that he would surprise her, come fast and hard before she expected it, and then push her off him, and take her the way he wanted to, the way that sated his curiosity.

He let himself go, then, trying to loosen into the tempo, giving his body permission, and he felt the orgasm approaching, moving toward him fast, building up like pressure before a thunderstorm…

...and then she stopped.  Stopped. Just like that, holding just the cherry head of his cock in her mouth, a long moment of absolute stillness, the only movement just the lightest breath of air over his wet cock.

Morsov’s entire body howled at him, frustrated, wild, and the sound pressed out of his throat, his hand clutching at her shoulder.  “Come on!” he said, after a moment, desperate, feeling the orgasm start to turn its shoulder and recede. 

Her mouth popped open around his cock. “That’s not begging.”  

He snarled.  “I don’t beg!”

He heard her laugh, felt it as a chuffle of air over his throbbing cock.  “Which is why I want you to,” she said, simply, one of those explanations that just would have left him confused, even if his body wasn’t a storm of need and want and confusion.  

Morsov cursed, groping blindly at her, and the word welled up in him, stinging of pride, like Joe’s hardest moonshine. “....please.”  

“Keep,” she said, planting a suckling little kiss on the head of his cock, which bobbed up in response, “trying.”  

“I’m not--I won’t…” He stopped, the feral growl diving into a whine as she took him in her mouth again, fingers sliding along his inner thighs, the seam of his legs, and his knees felt like water. Morsov’s head tipped back, loose with want.  “I said please!” he repeated, and that was definitely a whine, he thought, but it was too late to stop now, too late to go back, because her mouth was riding on his cock again, and the orgasm that had been escaping came rushing back.  And he was cursing, at first, blind imprecations, and “don’t you fucking stop” mixed with the pleading, whimpering “please let me come”.  

She reached for his hand, and pulled it to the back of her head. He felt her short hair against his palm, and then he was setting the tempo himself, hips starting to rock, sliding his length in and out of her. So deep that he could feel her breath on his belly, and all he could think about was how he wished he could see, right now, see her mouth circling his cock, his hand tangled in her cropped hair, and he kept saying, “please, please, please” with each push into her, like a prayer or a war chant, his eyes squeezed shut even behind the blindfold.

And then he came, and it was like hitting a wall at full speed, and he felt his balls jerk, rocking him onto his toes, and he felt the heat of his own come surge through his cock, filling her mouth, feeling her throat pulse in a swallow, and he heard his voice, still weak and thready, murmuring ‘please’.  Morsov’s knees felt close to buckling, so he leaned harder onto her shoulders, shuddering against her mouth, as he tried to master his breath, forcing air deep and long into his burning lungs.  

“I just want,” he said, as if the begging had torn open his pride, his reserve shattered, “just once, to be with a woman.”  It sounded pathetic, he thought, worse than begging, an admission of ignorance, of want.  

She went still again, for a moment, and then he felt her rise, felt the heat of her body slide up against his, and then he felt the blindfold loosen, and then her summer-green eyes fixed his, and he felt another stir in his loins, as she took a step backwards, somehow effortlessly pulling him with her, back to her bed. “Who said we were done?”


End file.
